


Best Laid Plans

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Attempted Murder, Awkward Sexual Situations, Crack Treated Seriously, Embarrassment, Farting, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e07 Sorbet, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plan had been quite simple, and - Hannibal had thought - quite generous. </p><p>A plan made in some haste, admittedly, but a necessary one. </p><p>Necessary after the events of this evening, during which Hannibal had squatted in Devon Silvestri’s pathetic crime scene of an ambulance, his hands around another man’s renal arteries, with all the FBI watching, including the serious, intense dark eyes of Will Graham.</p><p>And Will had <i>seen.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : Hannibal is planning to kill Will at the start of this story. 
> 
> **Notes**  
>  WHEN
> 
> "Would you write something (S1) where Hanni had planned to kill Will because he was too afraid of what he was feeling, but in the last minute something Will said or did made him change his mind?"
> 
> MEETS
> 
> "HI WOULD YOU WRITE A CRACK-ISH FIC? (kind of) Ok so it’s Hannigram’s first time and, obvs, Hanni is in awe and Will is a little shy. But everything’s going okay until Will accidentally farts."

The plan had been quite simple, and - Hannibal had thought - quite generous. 

 

A plan made in some haste, admittedly, but a necessary one. 

 

Necessary after the events of this evening, during which Hannibal had squatted in Devon Silvestri’s pathetic crime scene of an ambulance, his hands around another man’s renal arteries, with all the FBI watching, including the serious, intense dark eyes of Will Graham.

 

And Will had _seen._

 

Not everything, of course not. He’d have needed to be psychic. But something, something of what Hannibal is. Enough, perhaps. Certainly too much. 

 

And Hannibal? Hannibal had experienced a wish to twist and tear, and break off the patient’s kidney and press it to Will’s mouth, red and succulent, and have Will see that too. He’d felt the not uncommon urge to kill everyone else present, but this time for witnessing even a fraction of what he and Will were sharing - some fast, efficient method of slaughter, not allowing them even the gifted grace of display – and to take Will’s hands, help him step up into the ambulance to join him like some Austen heroine assisted into her carriage, and then to push Will down over the unconscious patient whose heart was still beating, and take Will there; penetrate him and push into him in time to those stuttering, fading impulses of life…

 

Hannibal had been half-hard in his suit trousers, and trapped that way, and throbbing. 

 

And entirely aware of this, and that Will’s role in his life was fast becoming an unacceptable risk.

 

These feelings cannot be indulged.

 

And arguably, yes, this plan still does indulge them a little, but the plan is logical, and it is not unreasonable, even now, to be generous to Will.

 

Will, who cannot be allowed to continue to occupy this role, but has not earned punishment, only pleasure and praise. And after tonight, there will be no further opportunities to bring pleasure to Will Graham, or to himself via that means, and why waste this chance?

 

“Well, this day’s work has left me quite enervated, I must admit.” Hannibal had said semi-casually - carefully, precisely semi-casually - once the second ambulance had arrived and departed, and they were standing by the parked FBI cars, paperwork getting filled out and Will a little apart from the others with his arms around himself, staring into space. 

 

He’d looked up at the sound of Hannibal’s voice, with light and that sight in his eyes again - that terrible, terrible _seeing._

 

Hannibal cleared his throat. “Indeed, I think I must postpone the dinner party that I had planned for this evening.” He allowed himself a sigh. “Twelve courses - it is not how I feel equal to spending my time at present.”

 

“Your friends won’t mind?”

 

A short laugh, careless, self-deprecating. Not like himself, but a lure must be crude at times, more tempting than convincing: “These people are not my friends, Will. They are acquaintances. Fellow athletes in the great competition that an active social life becomes. They will thrill to my weakness - it gives them something to say about me.”

 

“People can be…” Will had licked his lips, thinking. “Draining.”

 

“And yet, solitude is not always preferable. It depends upon the company.”

 

As earlier, over that supine, stuttering body that had found it’s only purpose in their story, their eyes had met. Again, Hannibal had felt a ripple of static through his spine, and his own heart rate accelerating. Fight or flight. 

 

Will swallowing again, uncertain, despite it all, despite what he could see - not yet believing or pursuing any of what he saw, and for as long as that was the case, Hannibal had time to act to protect himself.

 

“Well, I’ve been meaning to apologize for missing my appointment. Perhaps I could bring a bottle of wine to you? Not that…” - a small, too charming blush - “you’ll have to tell me what to buy.”

 

“That sounds quite ideal, Will. Thank you.”

 

And thus the plan was in motion. 

 

Wine Will and dine him. Give him a beautiful, elegant, delicious meal, the best and the last of his life.

 

Give him bodily pleasure, allow for once those trembling, misfiring neurons to delight in something. Make it warm and soft and quite comfortable. 

 

And then, simply, mercifully, a drink laced with plentiful strong opiate, and sleep. _And by a sleep, to say we end._

_-_

 

So here they are, now, at Hannibal’s table, a final cheese dish in front of them. Hannibal has converted some of his dinner party prep into dishes for two, and if Will has noticed that for all his demurring, Hannibal has still prepared eight courses tonight, he has said nothing about it.

 

Will is not always entirely transparent to Hannibal’s gaze, and this is yet another sign of danger, and yet another reason for this current plan of action.

 

It is not entirely as he pictured his first time with Will at his table. The purpose of this part of the evening was to enjoy this one, only, opportunity, and usually the promise of a kill only brings savor to what comes before, but Hannibal has found conversation harder than at times.

 

Will has filled the gaps, talking more and more freely than Hannibal has experienced with him before.

 

“…and so I had to learn for myself how to fish that way. I got a book from the library, and it was so beautiful – all the ties, the lures, it was old, had these color plates. I remember lying in my bed at home – and my sheets were this sort of off-brown purple, by then, because he kept putting colored socks in with the white wash by accident, and my room was… Anyway, I’d never seen elegance like that, never… The beauty and then the – the deadliness, I suppose? And I wanted… I stole that book. We moved after about two months anyway, and I took it, and I thought I’d get sent to prison, or hell, or both at once, but… I wanted that book more than I cared, although I had nightmares about it.”

 

Will’s glass is empty. He needs to become more intoxicated still for the purposes of the plan, but Hannibal waits, his hand on the wine bottle, not wanting to interrupt or break apart the images which hang in the air between them.

 

In the end Will laughs slightly, and pushes away a not-quite-empty plate. “Well, I sang for my supper Dr Lecter, I hope you don’t mind.”

 

“You’re my guest, Will. You could call me by my name.”

 

“You said your guests weren’t necessarily your friends. You asked me earlier if we were patient and psychiatrist or… something else.”

 

“It is not for me to control entirely what we are.” Hannibal doesn’t need to remember to look away, to take a deep and heavy breath. “You can choose that too. And so I ask.”

 

“This isn’t ‘friends’, is it?” Will sits up, leans over the table. “I don’t… I’ve never… When I look at you…”

 

He can’t be allowed to finish that sentence, and for so many reasons, and Hannibal kisses him.

 

It’s what Will wants. One of the things Will wants.

 

Interesting, to find out if Will could both want him and see him.

 

But that is not safe, not wise to discover and Hannibal has a plan to follow.

 

Will molds, pliant, against him, gasping, kissing back all breathless and hopeful, and Hannibal rises to urge him upstairs, where the bedroom and the readied glass lie waiting.

 

Will grunts, pleased, and follows, and then pushes back.

 

Back, back, until Hannibal is against the glass doors – blinds thankfully lowered – and struggling to move against all Will’s attentions; hands at his neck and palming over his shirtfront, legs and hips insinuating, moving.

 

Will, unleashed, has a clear idea of what he wants, it seems.

 

Of what he thinks he wants.

 

Of what he thinks he’s getting.

 

Of who.

 

Hannibal throws back his head, closes his eyes and struggles to breathe evenly, and then remembers he isn’t supposed to be trying to.

 

-

 

Will, bright eyed veal calf, letting himself be drawn upstairs and to bed and to the end.

 

This was the scene behind Hannibal’s eyelids. The reality he wrestled to attain.

 

But they’re still in Hannibal’s dining room, and somehow on the floor, now, and Hannibal is worried about wrinkling his suit in the small corner of his mind that never quiets, never melts, the corner that calculates even now where the weapons in the room are, and double-checks Will’s body for a gun even as with the other hand he rubs and plucks at Will’s nipples through his plaid shirt.

 

Will has opened several buttons at the top of Hannibal’s shirt, and is licking and nibbling at his neck, straddled over Hannibal’s body, rubbing their crotches together with a lazy, indulgent half-rhythm.

 

Hannibal puts his hand to Will’s buttock, cups it, hears his moan. Compelled, he pushes his fingers round and between Will’s thighs, and finds the pulse in his femoral artery.

 

Will isn’t aroused for him, not really. He’s here for the person suit, the willing psychiatrist, the companion and chef. None of this is real.

 

He’ll never know what Will would do with the truth, and that is the only way, because all Will would do would be betray him.

 

“I want to see you,” Will complains, restless above him, and Hannibal’s heart clenches, and Will rips his shirt open the rest of the way, and a button flies off, skittering under the table.

 

He must find that, later, in case of forensics. They’ll ask him questions about Will’s disappearance, of course, only natural. He will perform the role of someone surprised, but not that surprised. He’ll talk about instability and dreams of escape that Will had shared, and wonder aloud if he could have done more to help.

 

“Look at me!”

 

And Hannibal cries out, pain through his chest like fire, and raises his hands instinctively to strike back.

 

Will is frowning at him, and lowers his head to tongue at the nipple he bit.

 

“If this has all been some kind of hand-out to the poor, lonely profiler who’s too broken to date…” Will begins.

 

This is all wrong, all going wrong in Hannibal’s hands. Tonight was to be one long suave swansong. Will was to be happy and overwhelmed, and sated and soft.

 

“Hannibal, if you…” Will begins, and starts to try to move, to get off him.

 

And then, to shatter it all apart entirely, one of them breaks wind.

 

It’s a sound Hannibal associates more with corpses than anything, and he freezes on instinct.

 

Will, by contrast, starts laughing.

 

Rolls off Hannibal, and lies on his back and shakes and shakes with it.

 

“That’s my life all right,” Will is saying. “Oh, I know I’m not dreaming now, oh Christ.”

 

Shaking, still, and perhaps just a little hysterical.

 

Hannibal scoots to sit behind him, and after some thought picks him up and draws him into a hug from behind.

 

Not so much more intimacy – they were mid-frottage moments earlier.

 

But it feels – oh, what it makes him feel…

 

Will heaves in a breath and shudders. “I’m sorry. I’m such a fucking mess. I should have turned down the pickled cabbage, but of all the things I was worrying about I didn’t…” Half a giggle, half a sob. “With you, it never seems like the normal problems are going to apply, you know?”

 

Hannibal rubs his back. Dreams? Lucid dreams? Coupled with Will’s sweet scent, that presents… possibilities.

 

Of course he could kill this Will, this embarrassed, awkward, incalculable Will, as easily as the beautiful creature who kissed him, or the sharp-eyed profiler who assessed him, or the mouthy patient who likes to cross swords.

 

It’s only that he’s just found out that he doesn’t have to.

 

And that’s… entirely sensible and reasonable. This was always a risky plan, and something longer and calmer and more involved will be better in many ways, by any logic.

 

“I assure you, I have a very sincere desire to kiss you,” Hannibal says.

  
For veracity.

 

“After all, I am a doctor, and quite au fait with the principles of digestion.”

 

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Will tells him, fondly, tears of wild laughter still in his eyes, and leans in, mouth tasting sharp with salt now.

 

The new plan does not preclude parts of the old; the bedroom is ready, after all.

 

The morphine syrup can simply stay locked in the drawer.

 

All Hannibal’s options remain open to him.

 

“I wish to see you too, Will,” he says, because it is the next line that makes sense from him, and reaches out to explore, relaxed at last.

 

Will’s skin is hot and slick, and both their hearts beat loudly, insistently, together.

  
All very simple, really.

 

 


End file.
